


Though There Be False Images

by mintleaf



Category: James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-27
Updated: 2012-11-27
Packaged: 2017-11-19 17:46:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/575944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mintleaf/pseuds/mintleaf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bond has passed the physical and psychological tests, now all he needs to do is pass the simulation test.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Though There Be False Images

**Author's Note:**

> a copious amount of self indulgence is associated with this fic..

“007. This is standard procedure. All agents are subject to the simulation test.”

He fights the urge to tell Eve that he is quite alright, and the previous M had let him pass the tests for a reason, he didn’t need another bloody test to prove to MI6 he knew how to do his job. She seems to recognize his expression and smiles, but gives him a nudge to where Q is standing, waiting.

“Let’s get it over with, then.” he mutters. One more to pass and M would give him something useful to do, something exciting, exhilarating and foreign. 

Two employees in the lab, dressed in their typical long white coats tape wires on him, and motion for him to sit down. Bond sinks into the black chair, which is deceptively soft, and listens to Q as glasses are put on him and the height of the seat adjusted. 

“The simulation will last one hour real time. You may feel it to be the same, much shorter, or even for weeks. Remember, similar to the ones you’ve experienced before, you will have no recollection of how you entered the scene. Each agent has a specific simulation designed by me at M’s orders. It is up to my discretion to pull you out of the simulation if I see a need to, so please do not yell for me to end it as it is occurring.” Q smiles wryly at that, most likely remembering a past event.

“I trust it might not be too much of a challenge for you, 007, but do try to treat it seriously.”

He hears the challenge in Q’s voice, and lips twitch to a smile. Headphones are put over his ears, and he straightens his back, ready. He places his palms on the computer in front of him. It reads his palm print and says, “Recognized: 007. Beginning simulation in five, four, three...”

Bond hears Q’s faraway voice right before reality melts away. 

“Good luck, 007.”

 

The cafe is almost empty save for an elderly couple in the back, sipping the last of their teas and making quiet conversation with each other. 

Bond sits, orders earl grey, and begins to go through the possibilities of the intruder in his mind. M had been taken two days earlier, in the morning on his way to work. Cut off by an orchestrated accident and pulled from his car, to a new location yet to be determined. 

Silva is dead, and his lackeys would not have proper motive for going through all the trouble of kidnapping the new M. Perhaps Mallory had enemies who wanted a proper word with him before he settled too comfortably in his new position, or it could be anyone who wanted to wreak havoc on MI6.

There was no ransom being held either, and that didn’t help him narrow down a list of suspects. 

After ten minutes, soft footsteps come towards him and sound closer and closer. Bond looks up to see Q walking towards him, laptop held close to his chest. He’s about to say that they are absolutely not allowed to see each other out in public, especially in the middle of a mission, but Q looks straight at him and settles down in the chair across from him.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Bond asks.

“What does it look like?” Q smiles, but it’s strained and he doesn’t look away from him. 

“There are much better ways to get fired.”

“Oh,” Q says. “I’m not concerned about that.”

“You should be.” Q’s appearance is going to throw the enemy off, and he has to leave right _now_. The whole plan may be blown, but he maybe could still try to salvage what was left, if Q would only go away.

Bond stands to leave and switch tables, but Q tells him, calmly, “I know where M is.”

He sighs more loudly than intended, and sits back down.

“Found him, have you?”

“Even better,” Q’s uncomfortable smile widens. 

“Well?”

“I have him.”

Bond looks at him and thinks that Q really is too green for his current profession, and the little training and lessons he received as protocol were not enough.

“Could have told me that without coming to see me.”

“No, 007. I really couldn’t. It just wouldn’t have the same effect for when I threaten you.”

He has to take a moment then, because it isn’t possible Q has just said those words and implied he had something to do with M’s kidnapping. 

“Explain,” he orders. 

“Really, 007, to think that one so sharp would need an explanation of this. Simply put, I have M, and I am asking you to take me to M’s superior. Discreetly, of course.”

“For what purpose?”

“Why do I need one?” Q counters, and leaves Bond feeling uneasy at the shift in power. He isn’t surprised by the question, just by the person in front of him, openly admitting that he committed treason. Bond’s seen people like him before, people who mess with governments and order because they’re bored geniuses, some vagabonds without loyalty, some twisted who take a liking to seeing a country in panic. He has no doubt Q is more than capable of bringing down all of Great Britain with a few hours on his laptop, maybe even less. 

But Q has always been of the more demure in MI6, even though everyone has heard him swear more venomously than ever imagined possible, and watched him demolish a group of cocky teens who were sure they would give the geek in the lab a beating. Q, though, would never go against his country, his employers, co-workers, or Bond. 

The evidence in front of his eyes is inescapable, and he snaps out of it, realizing his train of thought has deterred. Silently cursing himself for losing focus, Bond flashes a smile, one that numerous women in the past have died because, and taps lightly at his teacup. 

“We don’t all need one,” he agrees. This is completely wrong, the voice always in his ear is now sinister, and it doesn’t sit right with him. Of all things, his instincts are what save him time and time again, so he searches Q’s face and body for any sign that he is being forced.

Q shifts, and fingers inch to grasp the handle of Bond’s teacup and pull it back towards himself. He takes a long sip and Bond watches, careful for any slight twitch of his eyebrow, a sudden dart at the left or right, a tap of the foot, the pinky, anything. 

“Calm yourself, 007,” Q sets the teacup down on his side of the table. “No one is making me do anything.”

Bond almost believes him, but Q stands and says, softly but imperatively, “Take me there. Now.”

“I don’t know who M reports to,” Bond is not lying. He could figure it out on his own, given enough time and means, but Q was demanding too much. 

“I know. I’ll lead the way, and you are going to do the talking,” Q smiles again at him and throws down a bill too large for a single earl grey. “Let’s go.”

Bond can take him. Q may have the brains, but in the end he’s framed in a tall, slender body unfit for brawls Bond is more than used to. Theoretically it should be simple, and though Bond has only known Q for a total for seven months, it’s enough to know that he has a plan, one that would likely have Bond crawling on his feet within a matter of minutes. 

He follows silently as a shabby washed out green car pulls up besides them. A masked man gets out and Q takes the wheel, motioning for 007 to sit beside him. 

They drive through local streets and Bond keeps his hands as close to his ankle without drawing suspicion. 

Q stops at a red light and eyes flicker at him. “No need for the knife, 007.” 

Bond raises his hands and tilts his head in acknowledgement. Green light replaces red, and they drive on. 

Bond’s mind races. Q is sure to know where every weapon on his person is hidden, and he can’t risk sudden movement. So he does the next best thing that comes to mind, and takes control of the wheel. 

It’s a mess, a fumbling and bumping of arm against arm as they grunt and swerve on the road. 

“For fuck’s sake!” Q hisses, and something familiar and cold is pressing against the side of Bond’s head. He retreats to his side and Q drives once more, one handed, the other steadily holding his gun at Bond.

“You move, and I shoot.”

“Right.”

Q hand doesn’t falter, and Bond grits his teeth in frustration.

“Is this fun for you?” he asks, knowing the answer is going to be a yes.

“It kills time,” replies Q. “Truly not ideal, but I’ve got to have my fun somehow.”

“Being quartermaster wasn’t enough?”

Q scoffs. “Hardly. They would have me make toys, though I admit they are quite illustrious, but really, a gun that recognizes a palm print? How easy would it be for anyone to wear a glove with your print?”

“You underestimate me, Q.”

The barrel of the gun taps at his head. “I’ve got you here, haven't I?”

“Not for long.” Bond knocks Q’s wrist away and kicks against the car to propel himself against Q. The car skids as Q slams on the breaks and struggles against Bond for the gun, which had fallen on the back seat, next to Q’s laptop.

He has Q’s wrists in his grip and Bond reaches for his own gun and cocks it, right between Q’s eyes. 

Q stops, and watches Bond retrieve the fallen gun with an amused expression.

“Proud of yourself?” he taunts. 

Bond doesn’t answer, and opens the car door. He drags Q out, ignoring the noise of pain from him, and throws him on the ground.

“007,” Q breathes out, shakily. 

“Who do you work for?”

Q blinks up at him. “Myself.”

He knows it’s the truth. Q may have one of the brightest minds in Great Britain and even the world, and it was a shame he was going to have to do this. Bond positions the gun with two hands and readies himself to take the shot. He’s begun to put pressure on the trigger when he’s knocked off his feet from Q, who kicked at his shins. The shot strays and hits a garbage bag. 

Suddenly Q drops a something small and button like, which Bond can only take one second to realize it’s going to knock him out, before he breathes in something sharp and feels consciousness leave. 

 

He wakes groggily to find himself cuffed to a pipe and his muscles weak. 

“I didn’t want to have to do that,” Q’s voice floats to him. 

“What a pity,” Bond cranes his neck and stretches as much as he can to gauge how cleanly he can escape. 

“Don’t bother,” Q snaps. “Give me some credit.”

The effects of the toxin he’d inhaled is still making him dizzy, and he can’t gather enough time to think to come up with a retort.

“Should I give you a moment? We’re underneath MI6 headquarters, if you must know.”

“M’s superior,” Bond’s tongue feels thick, he needs water, his mind is hazy, and he swore he had tried to say, “You wanted M’s superior.” He’s also certain it comes out in a drawl.

“You forced my hand,” Q tells him, his tone rising in anger. “I can’t have you stumbling and slurring in front of them, can I?”

“Why not?” Bond grits out, taking pains to enunciate clearly.

“Clearly you don’t want to survive the night,” Q drawls. “Reckless, reckless 007.”

Bond pushes all his emotions to the side, because this is business, whatever conversations he and Q had in the past were nothing now but all lies. Emotion could only hinder him, a lesson he’s learned multiple times, enough by now to be able to look straight at Q and separate the man in a cardigan with a laptop a mug to the man with a laptop and a gun. 

“Are you having fun?” he moves his wrists around to feel against the wall if there was anything that could aid him. There was nothing.

Q doesn’t answer him, which Bond takes as a no. Or it could be a yes, after all, this Q is new. 

“Since you have so much trouble talking, I’ll tell you what we’re going to do. I’m going to call M’s superior, and then he and 007’s quartermaster talk a bit about where M might have been taken. And you’re going to talk to them too, and tell them where M is.”

“Where is M?”

“Dead,” answers Q.

Bond looks up, startled, and Q is a mass of black in front of him from the light. Q presses a needle into him and Bond jerks at the contact.

“Hush,” Q commands, and Bond listens. Within seconds, clarity returns to his vision, and his mind begins to work properly again, taking note of every detail in his surrounding, and the spiteful expression in Q’s eyes.

“What is the point of you?” he spits. “You’re useless from inhaling a chemical I could create at fifteen. And yet MI6 spends so much effort keeping you, watching you.”

Bond doesn’t reply to the jeer, and keeps his head low as he tries to decide which is the better way out. There would be no leaving unless Q was fatally wounded or dead, and he guesses that it’s only him and Q here in this basement, judging from the way Q talked and was letting go of his now false MI6 persona. 

He would have to shoot Q in a vital organ. It was the best choice, and he had to see past familiar face of his quartermaster for a hacker with a penchant for havoc. Bond takes a deep breath and makes his decision to aim for the heart or brain and end it quickly. The gun, there had to be a gun somewhere on Q. Bond looks at the floor and moves his eyes cautiously across Q’s body for any sign of the bulge of a weapon. 

“Now you have nothing to say,” Q rolls his eyes. “ At the very least you can entertain me with your simple words.”

Bond spies it - on the waistband of Q’s pants, something protruding from his right pocket, destroying the symmetry of his body. He strains himself as far as he can with the cuffs.

“I’ve only just recovered,” Bond throws up his hands, and the metal clinks against the pipe. “Give me a little time.”

“You have ten minutes to gather coherence before I make the call.”

“Fair enough.”

The antidote coursing in his veins is making him realize Q must have they key to the cuffs, but it was most likely hidden within layers of clothing. Perhaps he would have to do this without a gun, though he would prefer the less physical way. After all, the person in front of him is still Q.

The minutes tick by in tense silence, with Q alternating between looking disappointedly at him and exasperated. 

Bond waits until Q asks him if he’s ready, and nods slightly, appearing a bit weaker than he felt. Q presses a number on his mobile and the sound of the speakerphone grates against his eardrums. 

“This is Q,” Q says softly into the mobile. “I’m with 007, who has information on M’s whereabouts.” 

“Put him on,” says a smooth female voice. “007?”

Q presses it against his ear. Bond musters to sound like he hadn’t just lost conciousness and forced to come to. 

“Reporting.”

“Where is M?”

“In MI6, sir.” That was the only plausible thing he could say, and Q must have anticipated it.

There is a pause.

“Why am I being called?”

Q takes back the mobile. “Because, sir,” he says silkily, “your presence is required.”

The female voice has no response to that, so Q continues. “If you aren’t here in -” he checks his watch and frowns. “ - twenty minutes, not only will you need to appoint a new M, but also scavenge the ruins of crater in central London for bodies of agents. I do suggest you hurry.”

Bond stares at Q, who is confident now in his viciousness, and wonders what was already being planned to counter Q’s plan to detonate a bomb. 

“Petty,” Bond blinks, and the the world around him is clear now; he’ll have no regrets for what he is about to do. The word comes out normally with minimal effort, and Q glances at him.

“I did enjoy all the times you blew up various places - empty parking lot, side of a bridge, and that one time when you nearly took a whole hotel with you,” Q folds his arms across his chest. “Now I’m going to make one of my own.”

Bond was so wrong, MI6 was wrong, M was terribly mistaken, and for that, he was dead. He’s thankful that this was Mallory as M, who he still has yet to warm up to. 

“But this time, you’re not going to get away,” Q kneels down to Bond’s height, and touches his cheek. “So no need to overthink.”

A generic ringtone sounds from Q’s pocket. He looks down, impressed. “They’ve found the number so quickly.”

The moment he reaches for it, Bond stretches himself as far as he can go and headbutts him. Q falls back with a yelp. Bond kicks Q’s side, and they wrestle, Bond with his legs and Q dazedly, his head still in pain. 

In the tangle, Bond manages to get close enough to Q’s hips to feel the gun so, so close -

Q snatches it out and slams it on Bond’s arm. Pain shoots through him and his arm drops down, but he grits his teeth and perseveres, straining the muscles on his arms and shoulders to go for the only visible weapon on Q. 

Bond swings his feet out again, a feeble attempt to knock Q down, but it works to his surprise. The gun slips out of Q’s grip and clatters on the floor, still not as close to Bond as he would like, so he focuses first on making sure Q wouldn’t get up anytime soon. 

Q is pushing himself up with his arms, and Bond uses the only part of his body he can, his feet, and slams down on Q’s back, forcing him to stay. “You bloody idiot!” Q hisses. Bond puts more pressure in keeping Q down, and replies, “You’d never be able to win against me. In a fight, at least.”

He presses until Q is wheezing for breath, and flips him around on his back. Obtaining the key would be too much trouble, he had to do this without a gun. Not how he wanted it, and yet it doesn't matter; Bond isn’t used to getting what he wants. Q scrabbles to get up but Bond is faster than one would assume for his age - he puts his legs around Q and snaps his neck.

The sound of the crack echoes and then becomes a fast beeping.

 

“Simulation, ended. Duration: forty three minutes and fifty six seconds.”

His vision is blurry and everything becomes darkness. The silence is replaced with the bustle of the lab, and he feels someone take glasses off his head. 

“Congratulations, 007. You’ve passed.”

It’s hard to know if Q is pleased or not, his voice is toneless and polite, but Bond nods his thanks anyways. 

The lab assistants busy themselves with pulling tape off him and setting wires neatly back in their organized drawers, and Q sets the blue glasses down. Without looking up, he tells him M is waiting upstairs.

He knows exactly what Q is doing, or rather what Q thinks he’s doing. Of course, like almost everything Q does, he does it well. Bond had to go see M soon after the test anyway, but the dismissive quality in Q makes him more reluctant than he already is. 

On his way, he makes sure to take the long route to the door and brush his knuckles ever so slightly against Q’s hips. He feels a barely contained jerk to the side and huffs out a pleased smile. 

M is sitting down, holding a thick stack of papers, some new, others yellowed, and heaves a sigh when Bond knocks outside. 

“Come in.”

He steps in, and Mallory cuts him off before he can report to duty. 

“Less than fifty minutes. I should have listened to Q’s suggestion and given you the more difficult simulation test.”

Bond raises an eyebrow and wonders what the simulation Q would have done in the other test. He might have preferred it. 

“Well, congratulations. You are finally cleared for duty without my pretending that you’ve passed all the exams.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I need you to go to Mumbai in about two hours. I trust you will be able to see this task through.”

Two hours gives him plenty of time. “Yes, sir.”

“You’ll be briefed on your way to the airport. Q has developed a new pistol specifically for this mission, so go to him before you leave.”

Bond nods and exits. He finds Q downstairs, in his office, sitting for once, and hears rapid clacking of the keyboard as Q sucks in a breath, engrossed in a new code or program design.

“I understand you have something for me,” he says. 

The words serve their purpose and he sees hesitation when Q’s eyes flicker towards him. 

“I do, though I’m afraid it’s in the other lab at this moment, so if you could give me two minutes...”

Bond stops him by moving as close as possible and tells him quietly, “I have two hours.”

“Oh,” Q’s fingers click to pause his program. “That’s plenty of time, but duty calls so we’ve only about an hour.”

“Good enough,” Bond relents, then asks, “What was the in harder version?”

“You know I can’t say.”

Bond closes Q’s laptop. 

“Next time, then.”

“Oh dear,” Q stops and stares at him. “I really did make this one too easy for you.”

“Not at all,” Bond reassures. 

“The average is fifty two minutes!” Q exclaims. 

Bond shrugs a little. “You don’t make a convincing villain.”

“007, it would do you well to not lie to me.”

“No lies,” Bond lies. 

Q glowers at him. “I’m going to give you a new weapon. The exploding pen, and it’ll blow off your whole arm when you click it.”

Those are the types of threats Q goes for. Ones he’ll never live up to, but are there to remind them both that Bond is the field agent, but the weapons made by Q do just as much work as he does.

He likes it, how Q is able to go from watching his villainous self die to wrapping his arms around Bond without complications. They both know the responsibilities of their jobs, and despite all the kisses and late nights, they are rational about it all. Q made the simulation himself, every word, breath and shade of color, and Bond’s hand tangles in his messy hair, one of the few things Q couldn’t reproduce with technology.

“My apologies,” he begins. “For killing you.”

Q presses against him and kisses him, slowly, breathing hard against his skin. 

When Q lets go, he says, “I tried to shoot you too.”

Bond’s fingers, which only recently were itching to hold a gun to fire hook on Q’s pants, and pulls Q toward him until he feels the weight of Q’s body against his.

“But you didn’t. I actually killed you.”

“No need to sound so happy about it,” quips Q, but he isn’t angry.

“I’m not,” promises Bond solemnly. 

Q leans into him and they stay standing like so with contentment, Bond still holding him close.

“I wouldn’t have a need to actually kidnap anyone if I wanted to take over the nation,” Q whispers in his ear. 

“I know,” Bond whispers back, his voice raspy. He has no doubt Q could do what he said in their first meeting, but he had said himself, a trigger needed to be pulled, and Q was not the one to do it. He would manufacture what MI6 needed to get to the point where the shot could be fired, but it was 007’s job to kill, not Q’s.

He doesn’t know if it’s because Q isn’t comfortable with killing; it doesn’t matter. Q has chosen to be his quartermaster but he would have to do the deed if it ever came to it, and there was nothing else to be asked. 

Q’s lips are more dry than usual, a sign he hasn’t had his afternoon cup of tea or coffee or whatever he drinks nowadays, but Bond doesn’t mind the roughness. He kisses Q until Q’s chest tightens and he inhales desperately through his nose. After breaking apart and catching his breath Q reciprocates, sliding his hands to Bond’s bare neck and holding it gently. He kisses up till he reaches Bond's mouth and bites at his lower lip.

“I do need to show you what I’ve designed. I guarantee this one is going to take you a few tries to get used to,” Q mumbles against his lips. "We'll finish this once you get the hang of it." 

Bond loosens his hold, and exhales his words on the corner of Q’s mouth before letting go. 

“Let’s go then.”


End file.
